Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle. BEVERLY BARTON
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understand how she could have disappeared the way she did, without a trace. The last anybody saw of her, she was heading toward her car after her class that night. But y’all found her car, stilled locked, parked at Adams County Junior College.”
“We’ve gone over the car with a fine-tooth comb,” Bernie said. “There was no evidence of foul play. No blood. No semen. Nothing to indicate a struggle. It’s as if she headed toward her car and never made it there. Either she decided to go back inside the building or somebody came along and nabbed her. Or she got in her car and back out again for some reason.”
“If she got in the car with somebody, then why didn’t a single solitary soul see it happen? There were other students going to their cars that night. Why didn’t any of them see something?”
“Stephanie’s car was not near one of the security lights and it was going on ten when she was last seen. In the darkness—”
“Has that new hotshot detective from Memphis shown up?” Ed asked abruptly.
“He’s here now.”
“Are you turning Stephanie’s case over to him?”
“He’s my new chief investigator, so technically that puts him in charge, but I plan to stay involved, to keep close tabs on the case.”
“We aren’t going to find her alive,” Ed said. “And you and I both know it.”
“I’m afraid you’re probably right,” Bernie agreed. But what if they never found Stephanie—dead or alive? Her family would continue to suffer for weeks, months, even years, always hoping beyond hope that out there somewhere she might still be alive. The odds of that were slim to none.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point in manning another search, is there?”
“I don’t think so. If I thought it would do any good, we’d do it, but …”
“If anything turns up, you’ll let me know immediately.”
“Yeah, if it does, you’ll be the first person I contact.”
“Thanks, Bernie. And say hello to your dad.”
“Sure will.”
The dial tone hummed in her ear. Bernie placed the receiver down on the telephone base and stared off into space for several minutes. The most difficult part of her job was dealing with her very feminine emotions. Just because she’d been elected sheriff didn’t mean she could simply turn off her nurturing, maternal, caretaker-to-the-world instincts. Yes, she was as smart as any man, as good a shot as any deputy on the force, knew the law better than most, and worked diligently to be half as good a sheriff as her dad had been. And although she’d been accepted by the male deputies from day one and she thought she had earned their respect, she knew that because she was a woman, her every action was scrutinized.
A knock on the door gained her attention. “Yes?”
The door opened a fraction and Jim Norton peered into her office.
She motioned for him to come in, but he simply shoved the door open wider to show her that he had his arms filled with the items he’d been issued. Uniforms, “campaign” hat, a Glock 22, Sam Browne belt, holster and cuff case, a retractable baton, radio, pepper spray, badge, and ID card.
“I’m taking these out to my truck,” he told her. “After that, I’m ready whenever you are.”
As he stood there, she surveyed him quickly from head to toe. He stood six-three. Weighed two-twenty-five. Was forty years old. All info she’d read about him in his file. But nothing in his file described the man’s rugged good looks. He wore his dark brown hair cut short and neat. His attire was casual—old jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots. But the one aspect of his physical appearance that Bernie found the most interesting was his eyes. Blue blue. Sky blue. And quite a contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. “Where are you parked?”
“My truck’s in the designated parking lot.”
“Okay, you go on ahead. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes. The jail is across the street, at the end of the block. We’ll walk.”
Upon arrival at the Adams County jail, an updated building that Sheriff Granger told Jim had housed the jail for the past half century, she introduced him to forty-something Lieutenant Hoyt Moses, a burly six-foot redhead with a boisterous laugh and seemingly good-natured disposition.
“Hoyt’s in charge here,” Bernie said. “He has three sergeants and eighteen deputies working under him.”
When they reached the area that housed the investigators’ offices, both the criminal and narcotics divisions, she paused in the hallway. “Look, these guys have worked together for years and some of them even went to high school together. They’re good men, all of them. They might have some preconceived ideas about you because of who you are. You know, the Jimmy Norton. Plus, you were a Memphis detective. But they won’t give you any trouble. You treat them fairly and they’ll do the same.”
“So who’s the one the most pissed about being passed over for the promotion?” Jim didn’t see any point in pussyfooting around, trying to be diplomatic. Diplomacy was part of the sheriff’s job, not his.
The lady frowned. “Brutal honesty isn’t always the best course of action.”
He shrugged. “It’s how I work. It’s who I am. Is that going to be a problem?”
She huffed. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“So, who is he? The guy who already hates my guts for getting the job he wanted.”
“Nobody here hates your guts,” she said. “The front-runner for the chief deputy position was Ron Hensley, and yes, he was disappointed when I looked outside the department to fill the position. But Ron’s a professional and he understands my reasons for hiring you. He’s not going to give you any trouble.”
Yeah, sure. “That’s good to know.”
Jim knew that he would have to prove himself to the other deputies, especially to Lieutenant Hensley. He was willing to do his part to get along with the guy, as long as Hensley didn’t give him any shit. From the get-go, he needed to make it clear that he was the chief deputy, the man in charge. And he needed to do this in a way that didn’t alienate any of his deputies.
“Ron and John are both here this morning, at my request. I wanted you to meet both of your lieutenants.”
Sheriff Granger opened the door and breezed into the central office. A couple of uniformed deputies stood talking, each holding a cup of coffee. Jim sized up the two quickly and decided that the short, stocky, slightly balding guy was probably John Downs. He had that easygoing, old-shoes-comfortable look about him. Jim guessed the guy was married, with a couple of kids, went to church every Sunday and liked his life the way it was. The energy he emitted was calm and low-key. The other guy was a different matter. A tad under six feet, slim and fit, with military, short black hair and pensive brown eyes. He presented a flawless appearance—from his handsome, clean-shaven face to his spit-polished shoes. This was, without a doubt, Ron Hensley.
“Morning,” the sheriff said. “Ron. John.”
Both men turned and greeted her.
“Jim, I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenants Ron Hensley and John Downs.” With their gazes fixed on Jim, they both nodded. Downs smiled. Hensley did not. “Gentlemen, this is Captain James Norton.”
Downs came forward, shook Jim’s hand, and welcomed him cordially. Then reluctantly, after glancing at the sheriff as if to tell her he would do what he had to do, Hensley held out his hand to Jim, but he didn’t say anything.
Hensley had a strong, firm grip, but he didn’t use the handshake as a pissing contest to prove he was as strong or stronger than Jim. And Jim respected that type of reserve and control in any man. His estimation of Hensley improved because